Signal Fire
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: He leans against the smooth oak, pressing his cheek to where he imagines her heart might be, if she were right here beside him. He closes his eyes and focuses on her steady pulse. Finally, he is ready for her anger. He opens the door. D/E, running away.


**A/N: I love, love, love the idea of even after Elena and Damon get together, even after they figure all their problems out, he still runs. Obviously he has a protective streak a mile wide – maybe even more so than Stefan, I think – and at some point he's going to realize that the Salvatores' presence in Elena's life doesn't do her any favors. Just a thought. So...set sometime in the future.**

**Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman, who is far and away the best beta a girl could ask for.**

**Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!**

_In the confusion and the aftermath,  
You are my signal fire.  
The only resolution and the only joy  
Is the faint spark of forgiveness in your eyes.  
- Snow Patrol _

He leaves Mystic Falls a few years after he and Elena finally get their act together, choosing to run from his demons rather than face them. He doesn't have a concrete reason for fleeing, really; there are no immediate threats to her life. He just…has to go. He doesn't care how cowardly it makes him. He doesn't ponder how easily he's slipping back into his horrible façade of not caring.

He doesn't even think about what this must be doing to her.

He loves her, of course, and he could never be ashamed of whom he is with her. But i's time for him to leave her. That's really all there is to it. Her life has been fraught with despair for too long (for as long as he's known her), and he thinks she deserves a chance to start over, without him, without vampires.

So he travels the world, traipsing from Tanzania to Zurich and back again. He seduces so many beautiful women that his head spins from the sheer amount of legs locked around his waist (none so magnificent and long as _hers_), the sated moans that escape their mouths when his teeth sink into their necks. He is full, satisfied about 80% of the time, and he even feels…happy.

But the other 20% of the time – the only time that matters – he is curled up on the floor of his elegant hotel room, gasping for air as the hole in his nonexistent heart wrenches itself wider still. The hole whispers her name sometimes, and he is so devastated, so _aching_, that he wishes he had never left her at all. He loves her the way only a vampire could love a human – deep, all-consuming, and more ill-fated than the steadfast ticking of the clock. He is so broken that he doesn't even notice how pathetic he's being.

So broken that nothing else even matters.

…

She shows up on his birthday.

And really, he's not surprised. She's always had an eye for detail, and besides, she cares too much to ever forget important facts like the day the man who loves her so intensely opened his eyes to this world for the first time (she would never be so stupid as to want to celebrate the day he turned).

She knocks on his door, a sound that fills him with a strange mixture of dread and piercing, agonizing (agonizing because there is no point in it) hope. He would recognize that knock anywhere, no matter how much time has passed.

He approaches the door warily, as if he's afraid of her. He realizes with a shock that he _is_ afraid of her. It's easy to argue that he's only afraid of her wrath, of the murderous glint that will surely creep into her eyes. But honestly, he's scared because he doesn't know if he can feel so much for her again.

All it does is put her in danger, over and over again. Since Klaus, they've basically been on the run, dodging witches and werewolves and trying to save themselves and somehow, still fall desperately in love. It's too much. It is just too much.

And besides, he knows he'll deserve whatever biting words she decides to throw his way, and that scares him. He left her without explanation, without warning.

Without even a goodbye.

He did it for self-preservation (it would have hurt that much more to actually have to tear himself away from her), and some selfish desire to make sure she couldn't go after him. Even now, it's hard to admit that he couldn't have borne the burden of her tears, the way she would have clung to him, terrified to lose yet another person she cares about (there's a litany of deaths and abandonment and betrayals). He couldn't have stood the realization that she was just as helpless to live without him as he was to live without her, especially because the realization doesn't make a difference.

He can't do this with her.

No. He shakes his head. It's better this way.

He considers pretending he's not home. But she is nothing if not persistent, and he knows she won't leave until he comes and talks to her.

Oh, he's so screwed. Why does she do this? Why does she come after him? She has no claim over him (except, of course, for the fact that she is the permanent love of his existence). She doesn't really have a right to come collect him or whatever.

(Except she always has, and more so now that she's his, too.)

He heaves a long-suffering sigh, loud enough for her to hear. He thinks it might get a laugh out of her, that ethereal giggle he has missed more than the potent smell of her blood. But she is quiet on the other side of the door, waiting patiently. Her stony silence somehow communicates more than words ever could.

Without thinking, he leans against the smooth oak, pressing his cheek to where he imagines her heart might be, if she were right here with him. He closes his eyes and focuses on her steady pulse, the rhythmic exchange of breath into her lungs (the sound he'll never get enough of).

Finally, he is ready for her anger. He opens the door.

His breath leaves him. She is here, here and beautiful. He is suddenly, inexplicably nervous.

But she doesn't look angry, or even annoyed. Her eyes are bright, untroubled, and she regards him with apathy, disinterest, as if she belongs here, and he unequivocally doesn't. He muses idly that she's wearing a lemon-yellow sundress, a drastic departure from her normal attire of t-shirts and jeans. There's a sudden lump in his throat. She looks positively _delectable_.

He can only stare at her for a moment.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" He drawls at last, with much effort, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to hide how very happy he is to see her.

She shoots him one haughty quirk of those perfectly sculpted eyebrows before stepping through the doorway and brushing past him. The quick touch of her arm on his scalds him.

He spins around, suddenly certain that she'll be taking him home with her. He has never really been able to deny her, and the determination in her eyes is unmistakable.

He gulps.

She appraises him with the disdain he always knew she felt for him. "What the hell," she asks slowly, and it's like he can _feel_ the emotion roiling off her, she's practically seething, "…were you _thinking_?"

It sounds more like a statement than a question, admittedly, and that's terrifying.

He does his best to defuse the tension; he gives a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, flashing her the most charming smile he can muster. "It was time," he deflects easily, his jaw clenching. "It was time to –"

"Abandon everyone who loves you?" She interjects scathingly, shifting so she completely mirrors his posture (as usual, they fit perfectly). He realizes with a shock that her eyes are bright with _tears_, and she's not untroubled at all. She's quite the opposite, actually.

And it's all his fault.

He takes a tentative step towards her, hands outstretched in his natural impulse to comfort her. She shakes her head minutely, but it's enough to make her feelings clear.

He hesitates. "I just," he begins, and he feels his perfect façade start to slip, and somehow he doesn't mind so much. "I just needed time."

(It's the truth, because he's incapable of giving her anything less.)

But her face hardens, and she lifts a hand in front of her, as if to make sure he doesn't come any closer. Her fingers visibly tremble. "Don't," she warns, and he winces when her voice breaks. "Don't stand there and tell me you weren't running away."

He resists the urge to give in right then. _God_, she knows him too well.

He cocks his head instead of acquiescing, letting his signature smirk settle neatly on his face. This isn't good for her. He can't stress her like this, not when she already has so much to worry about. It just isn't right. So he violates her boundaries (as always) and closes the distance between them, his eyes softening even as he wars against it.

"Elena," he whispers, the dull ache in his chest the only reminder he needs that it was a mistake to leave her. He strokes her cheek gently, taking in the way she doesn't shrink away from him, doesn't cower. It is uncharacteristic of her to give in this quickly, but it makes sense, considering how much they've both missed each other. "I didn't want you to get hurt."

She nods, absorbing this information for a moment, her brow furrowing. Still, despite her obvious confusion, she leans into his touch, almost instinctively. Her eyes are relentless, thoughtful.

Anger is still radiating from her, but at least she doesn't look like she's on the verge of exploding anymore. He breathes a sigh of acute, almost painful relief.

Finally, her eyes clear a little, and she casts her gaze downward. "Do you remember Atlanta?" She asks quietly. There's something like longing in her voice.

He nods, a bittersweet smile flitting across his face. "Of course I remember Atlanta," he assures her, some strong emotion burning through the words. And he does remember Atlanta, all of it: her grin as she knocked back shots, consuming more liquor than he assumed her tiny little body could handle; her tears as she lay limp in his arms, the realization that she was Stefan's ex reincarnate still flashing through her eyes; her easy rapport with him, as if she knew somehow, even then, that those "five minutes" would always be theirs.

He remembers those days as some of the best of his life.

She suddenly looks at him, her eyes blazing and fiery, the brown he loves most. "Then you must remember how you told me I was taking a five-minute break from my life?" She prods, and her tone is cutting, biting like the way it was when she told him he had lost her forever, so harsh that he can only stammer an incoherent confirmation. He is uneasy now. What the hell has gotten into her?

Still, she does not move away.

Her voice is a bit sweeter, or at least less strident. "I took a 'five minutes' from my life then," she reminisces nostalgically, a glaze falling over that placid brown. "And I still don't think I can thank you enough for that. But this…" She waves a hand around the sinfully expensive room, encompassing all the decadent weeks he's spent accomplishing nothing.

She touches his cheek briefly, warm silk on chilly flesh. He is shocked; normally, he is the one to initiate contact. Her eyes are unreadable. "This is more than five minutes."

He feels sick to his stomach. He never really thought of it that way. And all the responsibilities he so resolutely gave up in abandoning his life in Mystic Falls, all the promises he broke…all of it pales in comparison to the grief nestled in the immaculate corners of her jaw, the heart-wrenching sorrow buried in her eyes. He has caused her so much worry.

She is his to covet, his to worry about. That is his role in their relationship, not hers. He doesn't want her worrying about him.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, cringing as he watches the fight bleed out of her (he doesn't deserve her mercy; he never has). "It's just not safe for you if I'm in your life."

"Of course it isn't," she agrees readily, her head snapping up a little higher, her eyes glittering with the fire he has done everything in his power to keep burning. "But I thought we'd gotten over that. And your overprotectiveness doesn't give you the right to _leave_." She shakes her head, confusion spiraling throughout her delicate features. "Why didn't you talk to me?"

Color would flood his cheeks, if his cheeks hadn't felt a blush in more than a century. It sounds so silly when she says it like that. He hates how it makes him seem like some immature little child, running away from home.

But of course, she's right. He really had no right to leave.

He deliberates for a moment. Her self-sacrificing nature makes it nearly impossible for him to confess that he left because he's a constant threat to her life; she would only scoff and tell him she's faced worse, and besides, shouldn't they have a balanced history of saving each other, instead of one skewed so dramatically in his direction? And of course he can't go on his default spiel about how he's not good enough for her, because he's long stopped believing that, and she knows it.

Oh God. He has nowhere to hide.

So he just shrugs helplessly. "For the same reason as always," he explains haltingly, purposely ignoring the way her eyes narrow (they've had this argument _far_ too many times). "You're not ever going to be safe until you live in a world without vampires."

As usual, this line of reasoning doesn't really hold up, considering if he left her she would still live in a world with Caroline and Stefan, not to mention witches and werewolves. Not to _mention _the fact that Elena is sort of famous in the supernatural world…oops.

To make matters worse, he didn't exactly answer her question.

As such, he steels himself for how angry she will inevitably get. He thinks he's ready for it, he really does. He's dealt with her admittedly impressive fury enough horrible occasions to hopefully be immune to this particular outburst.

Boy, was he wrong.

She takes a frantic, hurried step away from him, chest heaving with the obvious effort to calm herself. Her hair just about stands on end with the force of her emotion, and she glares at him with so much ire that he's legitimately terrified for his life.

But he's almost amused by how much she looks like Katherine right now, what with her distorted expression and her shaking body. Hell, the summer humidity has even made her hair curl.

Damn, she looks _hot_.

And then she's yelling at him, loud and screeching, and he's really not amused at all anymore.

"For the five hundredth time," she screams, flinging her hands in the air helplessly, "I don't _care_!I don't understand why you can't just accept that. I want to be with you!" (He starts, just a little, as per usual.) "Maybe someday some evil vampire will come and kill me because I look like Katherine –" She pauses for dramatic effect, and he can't help chuckling – "again – but at least I'll have lived all those years with _you_. That's more important than anything else."

The flippant allusion to her desire to spend forever with him catches him off-guard, and he smiles broadly. He hasn't quite gotten used to her firm resolve that in a few years, she's going to become a vampire. It seems so surreal.

And really, he could pretend that her impassioned rant didn't affect him, that the reasons she always cites for why they should be together bored him to tears (except the tears are something entirely different anyways). But frankly, he has grown tired of lying to her.

So he takes a soothing step towards her, his lips pulling up at the corners. He loves her most like this, when she fairly _ignites_ with intensity.

"I know," he assures her, the words coaxing, the honey tone she can never seem to resist; sure enough, the fire in her eyes wanes a little, and she leans in his direction, almost without conscious thought. Something in his heart clenches, and he realizes what a fool he was to think he could ever really leave her.

She just shakes her head, slowly, wryly, indulgently. "I told you once that I need to make my own decisions," she whispers, and his breath catches in his throat, because he doesn't think he'll ever forget her face that night, her unreasonable desire to offer herself up to Klaus. "I told you it's my life. We've always agreed that we don't work unless we can be independent."

He nods. It's an agreement they didn't come to lightly, but he can't deny its practicality.

He feels himself giving into her, her sweet core sinking into him like it always does when he knows she's right. He finds it ironic that she's the one who always gives these ridiculous, passionate, gravity-defying speeches that seem to make the earth stand still. He supposes it only makes sense because he can't even recall the amount of declarations of love he laid at her feet in the months leading up to the culmination of too many years of waiting. Maybe it's her turn.

Or maybe she does it because she knows he needs to hear it.

He sighs. "The problem is," he confesses shakily, moving swiftly so he can press his forehead to hers, their favorite mode of contact, "It's become obvious that I can't protect you. As long as there are vampires in Mystic Falls, you will never be safe."

The words echo in the silence, lovely and still, and she closes her eyes, clearly praying for patience.

Honestly, he does realize how stupid he's being. She told him once that Stefan tried to leave a few months into their relationship, reasoning that being in love with a vampire couldn't be good for her. He doesn't want to be like his brother. Only now, though, when she's in love with _him_, can he understand why it's such an appealing possibility.

He can't bear the thought of her in danger. He couldn't bear it when the Originals were after her, and he can't bear it now. He thinks he'll never be able to bear it, even when she's as indestructible as he is.

"I know," she voices at last, the words thick with authority, the way she speaks when he's being especially obtuse. It's a tone that could only ever convey: _I know what I'm doing and I'm going to do it_.

So he stops fighting her. Because this is Elena Gilbert, and he didn't nearly tear apart his relationship with his brother to give her up now.

"I know you want to protect me," she's saying, speeding up now, like she's afraid he's going to leave her again (as if he even physically could), "And I love you for that. But I just want to be with you. I want to travel the world with you and have crazy sex in multiple hotel rooms. I want to marry you over and over again and make you as happy as I can possibly make you. I just want –"

She breaks off, pulling back so she can look at him, see right through him as always. Her eyes are watering.

"I love you," she repeats, and if he believed in a divine God he'd be falling to his knees in gratitude right now, "And I realized a long time that I can't be happy without you. I don't want to be."

She smiles at him, warm and real, and he trembles. For a moment all he can see is the future they could have together, the adventures and the dancing and the lazy days intertwined amongst scattered bedsheets…he blinks hurriedly. He's afraid he might start to cry, because her eyes are soft and he loves her more than he even knew was possible, and if he ever loses her he won't be able to go on, he won't even –

So he kisses her. He presses his lips eagerly to hers, eliciting a delighted gasp from her and a delighted sigh from him. He feels instantly complete, whole, and he thinks that this is worth a century and a half of heartbreak. This is worth so much more.

This is worth everything.

_fin_

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**Please let me know what you think!**


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